What's Left Of Our Sunburns
by tearlys
Summary: Bad alcohol, a broken surfboard, and a beach house. This is the story of how Jean Kirstein saved a life and lost another one completely, but in the process, learned that falling in love with Marco Bodt for the second time was the best mistake he was ever going to make. [JeanMarco; Modern AU; ongoing]
1. I Wish I Could

**AN:** Clinically obsessed with JeanMarco. I fear there is no going back. So here it is. The first of (hopefully) many chapters.

**Summary:** An awakening, a newspaper heading, and awkward gestures meant to be intimate and meaningful.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: I Wish I Could<strong>

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><p>The first thing I remembered was the scent of rust and salt.<p>

Immense pressure weighed down on me, vigorous and consistent, as my lungs swelled and pounded against the open ends of my chest for air. Numb, chapped lips found another pair repeatedly, and all at once, I was breathing again, torso heaving only to descend and remain still. Though this was true, I could not find the strength to open my eyes, much less shift. Every portion of my body seemed to disobey my subconscious' demand to "_Fucking move, dammit, it's wet down here._" Not that I actually knew where "down here" was. All I knew was that — even though I was somehow paralyzed and incapable of mobility — I was cold as shit and my skin was drenched and sore from shingles underneath.

I'd had plenty of crappy snoozes in my days, but this had to be, by far, the most unpleasant, miserable one of them all. If you knew me as the random drunkard who had to crash in a tub that night Ymir's party went wrong, then you know I've had some pretty rough sleepovers. And although I figured I hadn't intentionally crashed here, I knew there had to be something wrong by the way my head spun and stung like a bitch from the backside.

Pulling me away from the spiraling thought of pain, a mask of voices formed vaguely. Familiar yet so foreign and distant, they seemed anxious, buzzing closely overhead. Surprisingly enough, their frantic rambling had no distracting features whatsoever to alleviate my situation for long. I tried so much as twitching my fingers to get someone's attention, but by the time I'd come to, I was already giving up consciousness.

"Jean!"

He called me.

I didn't answer.

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><p>"He looks so.."<p>

"So what?"

Pause. "Peaceful."

"Yeah, you're right." A scoff. "He actually looks _not_ mad and emo."

"C'mon, Reiner, do you really have to do that now?"

"Listen, Marco, I love you and all, but you gotta admit: your husband's kind of a train wreck."

"First of all, he's not husband-"

"Ohh, right. You're just his boy toy."

"Reiner!"

"What? It's true, isn't it?"

"No, of course not!"

"It's okay, Bodt, you can admit it."

"Admit what, Ymir?"

"Puh-lease, we know what you guys did the majority of last summer and_ yesterday_ in your dad's tool shed."

"No… no way."

"Mhm," another voice chimed, "but don't worry. It's not like we listen in on you guys from time to time, _Captain_."

Snickers hovered the space above, boisterous and annoying, followed up by a series of inept stammering. Frankly, the whole thing was irksome. If I could've ceased the entirety of it, believe me, no one would dare diverge in idle chit chat near me in the first place. So why couldn't I?

"Look," the supposed 'Marco Bodt' interrupted between name callings, "the point is that Jean is.. he's hurt right now, guys. A _real_ group of friends would support me instead of laughing their asses off."

"You know what?" a new voice joined. "He's right, everyone. Stop making fun of him and Jean, okay? Be mature."

"Thanks, Sasha," said Marco, tone instantly softening.

The deep voice again. "We were just kidding, Sash. Sorry, Marco."

A sigh. "It's fine. But listen, the doctor said Jean can barely even move for the next few days."

"Don't worry, Bodt, we'll take care of him until then. He's important to you, so we'll behave."

"Thank you, Ymir."

"Besides, knowing him, he'll probably be pissed about it. You know how he gets."

"Yeah. I don't want to see him strain. I don't want to argue anymore. I'll do whatever he wants me to do." Then Marco choked. "You know what the funny part is? We finally made up, too, and this shit happens. It was just yesterday. Just yesterday, he forgave me after everything that happened, and I promised him nothing bad was going to go down this summer."

"Marco, you didn't know." Sasha. "Don't blame yourself. It's not your fault."

"But how am I supposed to face him when he wakes up? After hurting him for an entire year? After sleepless nights of crying over each other and promising things could work out when they didn't? God," he sniffed, "I'm such an idiot for making him wait for me."

"Don't say that, Marco," a tenor voice spoke out. "Marco, he loved you no matter what. He wanted you to wait for him, too, and you did. You never broke your promises."

"Connie.."

"It's true, man. I know, trust me. After a while, stuffing corkscrews in my ears never seemed to block out his obsessive need to serenate his love for you. He sure enjoyed late night phone sex, too." That got a few chuckles. "So hey, don't sweat it. Jean definitely wants this."

Marco replied, his voice now smiling a bit. "We never had phone sex."

"Well, whatever," Connie dismissed. "That shit was too lovey dovey for my taste, either way. May as well have been phone sex."

After the short silence followed the light pitter patter of what sounded like wet boots approaching. "Yeah," Marco agreed. "He didn't know how embarrassing he sounded, but he always knew how to sweet talk me at one in the morning. Fool never slept without saying what he loved about me first." The next thing I knew, a hand had slipped under my left palm and squeezed me lightly. "Jean," he whispered desperately. "I'm begging you. I _need_ you to wake up. Please. Please."

The fact that I was actually awake and not hallucinating this conversation meant I'd been eavesdropping on something I now regretted listening into. I mean, what I heard was real? My confirmation was the tenderness in Marco Bodt's grip, and it was weird. Weird, but sort of nice. Sort of nice, but still weird in itself. I wasn't an intimate person, and he was a guy — mind you — so you could say I had a lot of mixed feelings about it. In that moment, I—

"Wait, wait, wait! I think he's waking up now!"

In reply, several gasps held the room's abruptly tense atmosphere whilst eyes endeavored against heavy lids to flutter open. When they did, a white ceiling revealed itself. A steady beeping pinged every few seconds and I just knew. A hospital bed. _How cliche_.

"Jean." The sound was so gentle and careful, like a whisper. I blinked several times before looking left. The grip in my hand folded inward. "Jean, can you speak? Please, please talk to me."

He leaned forward, a little too close for comfort. The guy looked like he was going to cascade waterfalls or something. Fuck. With a throat full of daggers, I somehow managed to reply hoarsely. "Marco."

"Yes?"

"My hand hurts."

Just like that, he let go. "Sorry," he said as if I had a gun to his head. "Sorry."

Instead of laughing, it came out as a huff. "You said that already."

His forehead creased, but the corners of his lips curved upward, forming tiny dimples at the edges that brought out the dark brown freckles plastered across his cheeks. Truthfully, the look suited him better than the previous one.

"I'm so glad you're okay."

Nodded to the best of my ability. "Me, too. I guess."

"You had us worried, you idiot." That tenor voice again. I'd already forgotten the rest of the audience.

In the corner of my eye, about four or five more people surrounded my bedside. The one speaking was bald and the shortest out of everyone else, but there was something to him. Next to him, a towering blond adjusted his posture. "You know, dude, for a while, we thought you weren't gonna make it." His voice was a deep bass; gravelling and intimidating, yet at the same time, reassuring. The muscles and brawny stature gave that sort of appeal. "But hey, that reckless stunt of yours got your name in the paper yesterday: '_Brave High School Student Saves Local_.' Catchy, huh? Funny thing was that I didn't know your name was French. I thought your name was spelled J-O-H-N this whole time by the way it's pronounced." Everyone laughed. "Anyways, good to know you made it out, man."

At the same time, a brunette to my far right was already caught in tears, plunging forth to wrap her arms around my neck. Her breath shuttered. "Jean, you big dummy! We were so damn worried!" Sniff. "W-why did you have to play hero? You dumbass."

I didn't say anything. Instead of articulating about how my spinal cord was on the verge of snapping, I patted her twice on the back and exchanged some awkward glances at everyone else who was standing. Well, almost everyone. Marco was still sitting faithfully to my left like he had so much to say. Evidently, he was waiting patiently for his turn.

The girl hugging me must've sensed my discomfort. Leaning back, she stared wide-eyed. "Jean? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I replied.

Instantly, her mood changed. Lips pursed. Eyebrows pinched. The sight was more than a tad frightening. "Jean Kirstein, I know you. Something's always wrong when you say it's 'nothing.'"

That was the problem, though.

"I'm a little light-headed," I said. "That's all."

The bald guy walked up to me and placed his hand on my forehead. "You sure you're alright, bro?"

"It's nothing," I said again, "seriously."

Tall, tanned girl next to the muscular blond placed a hand on her hip. "Spit it out, Kirstein."

I can't.

Marco leaned forward. "If you're feeling a little dizzy, Jean, we can call the nurse."

"I-I don't know."

So close. The weight of concern was overbearing and _suffocating_.

Too many bodies. _They're too close_.

The faint beeping noise increased erratically, and now that everyone else could hear my heartbeat, I was afraid they could hear my thoughts, too.

Misty eyes and more questions were shot at me. _"Do you need to go back to sleep?"_ and _"Is it too cold?"_ and _"Do you want me to get you something to drink?"_ and at some point, everything became blurry.

Too much information.

Too many voices.

Too many names.

I wanted it to stop. I didn't want to hear it anymore. Because I didn't know what the heck was going on.

"Stop, stop, just stop." My hands jerked out, pushing them away, whoever was near. That seemed to shock everyone. Even me. "I'm sorry," I choked, hanging my head. "I-I'm sorry.. not too close.. please."

They stepped back, but I could still feel their hard gazes. Thankfully, the monitor had also quieted down significantly and the beeping returned to its normal, steady pace.

"Okay," Marco said quietly, breaking the ice. Then, he looked at each person, one by one. "Give us a minute, guys?" A silent consensus was made, and they nodded. They proceeded to exit the room, stealing one last glance at me as if they needed to imprint my appearance into their memory for the last time before closing the door behind them. If there was anything I noticed, it was this: pity never left their countenance.

It was not until all of them left that I was able to breathe again. The air felt clean. Pure. With a hint of depression and decay, but this was the hospital, so I had to set that thought aside to remember the basic mechanisms of breathing.

Marco had stayed, though. If there was any hint of unease before, it had vanished. Still, my throat felt scratchy from before, and I started gagging. Marco grabbed a water bottle off a nearby counter and handed it to me. "Thanks," I mumbled, uncapping the thing and gulping my fill. "For this and, well, you know."

"No problem. I know how you get nervous around crowds." He rubbed the back of his head. "Listen, I know it's been a while since you saw Reiner and Ymir, but they're really worried about you, too."

That again.

"Right," I responded, closing the bottle and setting it beside me.

"I think you should talk to them separately, if that helps."

"Sure."

"Sasha and Connie were crying the whole time you were out. Obviously, Connie won't admit it, but he did."

"Mm."

He ogled me for a good minute. "Jean, are you sure you're okay?"

I shrugged, but only to distract myself. For some reason, my hands shook with anticipation. And I didn't know why. I also didn't know how to explain to Marco Bodt what had been bothering me the past couple of minutes, because, rather than being rude, I was being oblivious. Or ignorant. Or whatever it was you'd call this. And it wasn't my fault. I'm sure it wasn't his, either. I just didn't know how to actually_ say_ it to him without sounding like a complete douchebag. Expressions never did me justice, frankly. I was always a fuck up when it came to that sort of thing. Why? My eyebrows naturally pulled downward to produce the assumption I'd been born angry. When people saw me on the street, they'd either tell their children not to stare too long or ask me if I was looking for a scrap. Yeah, I'd been walking home from the grocery store holding a pack of Dr. Pepper and some Milky Ways because I was looking for a back alley drop. Sure, whatever.

The point was that I had no way of making my reasoning sound gentle the way Marco effortlessly made it seem.

"Jean."

The way the name rolled off his tongue was soothing. But scary.

"You can tell me anything."

I tried to smile. "I wish I could."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm sorry."

He cocked his head, genuinely confused. "Why are you sorry?"

I sighed. It wasn't right. The right words were impossible to find. "Look.. you're a nice guy. You are. One of the friendliest I've met, even." I could see that he was waiting for me to finish. I didn't know if I could. "The thing is, I don't really, well — it's just — it's sort of hard for me to place you."

Did that work?

"I don't understand."

"Okay, um," struggling, I anxiously combed back my hair, "to put it in simple terms," I sighed again, "I'm sorry. I really am. I-I don't.. I don't know how to say this. It's not that you're.. what I mean to say is that I-I don't _know _you."

His face. If you'd had seen his face, your heart would've dropped just as mine had. There were no words to describe it.

"You don't know me?" he repeated.

The guilt ate me.

"I'm sorry."

"W-wait," he panicked, pulling himself out before falling back into his stupor, "how do you know my name? How do you remember my name, then?"

I shrunk. "I overheard everyone talking for a while before I woke up. I didn't mean to. It just sort of happened, you know? And your voice matched the name."

"No," he denied. "No, no, the doctor didn't say anything about.. no, you _have_ to remember."

I frowned. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

He shook his head profusely, processing. "No, no, this can't be happening. You were supposed to be okay. I-It just," he inhaled keenly, an attempt to keep himself composed. "You don't remember what happened to you? Before you passed out, you don't remember?"

I shook my head.

His expression grew frightened. "You don't remember it from two days ago? You saved a little boy from drowning. He was twelve," his voice cracked. "His name was Reveland James. H-his mom, she was yelling for someone to help him in the rainstorm and you just — you jumped in the water like the idiot you were because you're that person. The kind of person who saves people even when you can't think about the consequences that might bite back. You're too busy to remind yourself of the consequences and getting hurt and that people want to care for you but you care far too much for them to think otherwise. Because you're.. you're Jean Kirstein. You don't remember any of that?"

I wish I could. _I wish I could._

His face went pale.

"Do you at least remember my face? My name aside, can you remember anything about my face? Do you remember anything about — about _us_?"

I _have_ been looking at him. I've been looking, and I can't remember. The more I looked, the worse I felt.

"You don't remember," he answered for me, reading my expression. "You really don't remember me."

That was when Marco was at a loss for words.

We sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity. For a long while, his eyes wandered aimlessly into my own, like he was looking at nothing and all of me at the same time. Searching for me. Searching for the plane I was on. It gave me a period of which I had used up to study his features, how his dark brown hair matched perfectly with his freckles that seemed to reach his ears and stretch down his neck and collarbone. Pink, supple lips left slightly open to his surprise, and deep chocolate eyes that were still trying to analyze my sandy ones. But as I looked at him and vice versa, I couldn't help the dilemma.

Here I was, trying to remember Marco Bodt; trying to remember his voice and ridiculously small but conspicuous freckle at the corner of his eye that was — unlike the others — shaped like a star; trying to remember if he was important to me or not but knowing he probably was because, for Pete's sake, he was at my fucking bedside in a hospital with a bunch of other people I was supposedly friends with, too. And there _he _was trying to make sense of why I couldn't remember him. Why I couldn't bring myself to hug that brunette (who, I guess, was named Sasha). Why I couldn't reply when the blond (probably Reiner) had been so happy about "making it out alive."

Why? Why couldn't I remember Marco? Why couldn't I remember _any _of them?

Why couldn't I remember the fact that my name is Jean Kirstein? And the fact that I'm French? And that I'm afraid of having a bunch of people up in my business? And that, apparently, I have the heart of some fucking saint or something? Yet I can remember stupid stuff like how strangers on the street think I'm some low life and that I drink Dr. Pepper even though I secretly hate it?

Did any of this make sense?

Shit, I didn't know.

I didn't know how to make this right, either. I didn't know how to comfort this huge, sensitive male sitting right in front of me that may or may not have been the most important person in my life. I didn't know how tell him everything was going to be alright. I didn't know how to console him and say, _"Oh, I was kidding! I actually do remember you!"_

I couldn't leave things the way they were, despite not knowing the "right way" to do this. Not with Marco showing me his most venerable expression. Not with his perfectly shaped lips trembling as if they were going to fall off his mouth. God, I just wanted to hug him until he was done crying, if that was what this was leading up to. I wanted to have him slap some sense into me, because I hated seeing people cry on my account, whether it was for me or because of me.

But I didn't know him. I didn't know myself.

So I didn't do anything.

Instead, I said the only thing I was allowed to say. The only thing that kept me from being the world's shittiest person alive. The one thing that, I knew, must've been the golden phrase I used in the period of time I actually did know Marco Bodt.

"I'm sorry."

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> Thank you for anyone who has made it this far, truly.


	2. Who Are You

**Summary:** Medical news, a revealed identity, and a release date.

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: Who Are You<strong>

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><p>If I had to label Marco in a single word, it would be persistent. Mm. Or maybe it would be loyal. Wait, wait, scratch that. Diligent. Definitely diligent. Definitely polite, too. (Maybe a little too polite, like in the dorky kind of way, but still pretty endearing or whatever, ya know?) And he was — geez — he was everything and more, basically, okay? The freckled kid was an absurdly gigantic pile of redeeming qualities that I was barely able to keep up with. When it comes to compliments, I'm pretty fucking terrible at setting the example.<p>

Anyway, to understand my flustered take on praising him, let's rewind five days back; since I woke up; since I met Marco Bodt. Well, the correct term for my case would be re-met Marco. It's a long story, so bare with me.

After apologizing for the hundredth time about not being able to remember my relationship with him, he went into a trance. There had been too much awkwardness and distress produced, the atmosphere sharp enough to cut glass. Agonizing truths were slapped on every inch of him — you could see it. Shoulders dropped. Eyes lost themselves to anxiety. Hands trembled. Bleak aura consuming the space around him. And me. I sat in silence, looking at him, feeling like I owed him a lifetime of half-assed apologies because I didn't know any better than to slap him on the back and say, "It'll be okay, man." That I would — as so much — wake up to stage as the Jean Kirstein that didn't know how to provide solace, and it got me thinking.

Who was Marco Bodt to me before? What would the other Jean have done now? Marco couldn't snap out of it until my mom rushed into the room and asked him to leave. Startled, he stood up and left, but unlike the others, he didn't look back. It hadn't occurred to me that I was reaching out to grab his arm. But what could I say? I didn't have the words. So I didn't have the courage. I pulled my arm back and let him slip.

Mom and I didn't talk long. I wasn't particularly close with her, but because of the state I was in, the matter had somehow flipped a switch on her personality. We talked about how I was. We talked about how I was suffering from amnesia and that it might last for a few weeks or so. The doctor wasn't sure, but he suggested that I "take it easy" for the time being and go on about my days doing what I usually do. "It should come back to you eventually," he said. "Your brain has been forced to stimulate a type of defense mechanism to keep you from hurting anymore physically."

It was puzzling. "Hurting from what?"

"The coral that your head collided with fractured several sections of your head. To simply put it, the parts damaged dealt with memory storage and coordination via eyesight. The stimulus from your stress may also be the reason you have amnesia."

"From my stress?" I asked.

The blond doctor offered a thoughtful expression. "Mm, things like bad memories, painful periods of time in your life, the general affliction of sort; anything too extreme that had to be blocked out for the time that you are healing. Stress may exacerbate, or otherwise, worsen your condition. In order to heal faster, your mind had to clear of any stressful triggers that might cause any more brain damage."

Mom had a few questions of her own. "Why couldn't he remember his name or who he was, though?"

"That should come back to him sooner than others." The doctor flipped through papers on a clipboard, reading. "He's experiencing different types of temporary memory loss. General bits like his identity and information necessary for everyday use should be present again after another good night's rest. He's just a bit disorientated since he woke up thirty minutes ago. Anything else you might be concerned with will take a little longer to retrace, on the other hand."

"How much longer?" I asked.

I couldn't afford 'a little longer.'

He hesitated. "That's up to you, Jean."

I scoffed. "Up to me?"

"Yes. Your memory will come back slowly, but only as you would want it to."

"What does that even mean?"

"Jean," Mom said, "calm down. Don't raise your voice."

And so I didn't. Breathing in slowly, I calmed myself before talking again. "Doctor, what do you mean 'only as I would want it to?' I already want to remember everything."

The man set the clipboard down on the counter and pulled up a chair on the opposite side of where Mom sat. He gave me a stern look, and honestly, it made me uncomfortable. "Are you sure?" he asked.

What the heck?

"Of course I'm sure," came my reply without hesitation. "Why wouldn't I want to remember? Why would I want to forget anything about myself?"

He just looked at me. "Why would anyone want to forget anything, Jean?"

As much as I wanted to answer, I didn't know how to.

He gave it a few minutes, studying me. "No one can answer knowing what they want to forget until they've already forgotten, just as you have. Maybe there's something in your life you wanted to forget for the time being because it was too overwhelming. It's too much to shoulder. Too much to take in. Maybe you wanted to forget many things, but you couldn't do it by yourself."

"Dr. Smith, I think this is getting very inappropriate-"

"No, Mom," I interrupted, still looking at the doctor. "It's okay."

The man nodded and continued. "Jean, you have to understand that we, as people, cling to what hurts us because it's how we know we're human. It shows us that there is something beyond nothingness that confirms that we're living. Your brain had taken notice of that, and due to this accident, this is what that desire has made you now: the boy who had the chance to temporarily forget. The person who many would envy. You're the one that gets the opportunity to clear your mind. You've forgotten for now, and you don't carry the burdens anymore. It's only for now, but it was a rare shot."

That's when he lost me, because he was a doctor. Was he allowed to sink this sort of perspective into his patients?

Why would we cling to what hurts us? 'Something beyond nothingness?' I desired to forget what was important to me? Waking up to a bunch of strangers crying rivers and making me feel like crap for not understanding the depth of those emotions? How could anyone ever want something like this?

It had occurred to me that none of this was inquired out loud, because Dr. Erwin Smith had placed his hand on my shoulder, driving me away from my thoughts. As if he were transferring his sympathy, the weight of his hand left an impression on me. Then, with that, he was gone.

Wasn't as though Mom had the guts to stay long, either. She had work to attend to. Business stuff. Stuff I couldn't understand, but somehow, held a higher importance than me in the world of parenthood. We talked a little longer about how I should continue to stay at Uncle Aldrick's beach house for the summer until she and dad got back from the oh-so-life-changing conferences that were going to be "worth it" in the end. Not that I cared so much, really. Uncle Al's here in South Carolina was practically paradise compared to that big, lonely house back in New York. And New Jersey. And New Hampshire. I had lived in so many different states with the word 'New' preceding the title that I wish I'd grown old to never experience the word ever again. Thankfully, I had graduated from high school a few weeks back, so I was able to stay in a dorm in university this upcoming fall.

Oh, right. This was information I got from Connie.

Flash forward past the awkward first day of my awakening. Day two, all the people that had huddled around me the day prior had revisited. Marco had explained my.. memory situation. At least, that's what I had assumed, because Reiner and Ymir took it upon themselves to dedicate _everyone's_ visits to helping me catch up with whatever it was I'd forgotten.

Thankfully, Dr. Smith was right about the general stuff. Funny how you don't know yourself one day and wake up to regret ever wanting to know.

Yeah. I was Jean Davet Kirstein. Dad's a mix between German and Italian while Mom's German and French, so that explains why my expressions are often mistaken to be aggravated and grumpy. My birthday is on April 7th and I'm an only child. Everything concerning my personality — well — let's not bring that to light. It's shit. Not exactly living up to the heroic description Marco gave me before, but hey, I wasn't expecting anything remotely close to it, anyways.

On the third, fourth, and fifth day, like I said, everyone would have one-on-one sessions with me. Ymir was first. She thoroughly explained that she had only decided to talk to me before anyone else because she wanted to knock some sense into me. At first, I was happy to oblige her; I was getting tired of not remembering. But after a while, she sort of intimidated me. And scared me. Fuck, I was tough, but she was harder than diamond. She animated my accident, and from her point of view, I think she made me look more badass than she lead on. During our other sessions, she came with another blonde girl named Historia, and introduced her as her girlfriend. The two seemed to be complete opposites, but I think that's what made them look kind of perfect together.

Next, there was Sasha. Sasha cried the first two visits she had alone with me. With everyone else around, her tears felt too overbearing, but alone, I felt sympathy for her. I hugged her for a long time. She was a stranger to the "me" now, but it felt right. Her shoulders felt strong, but she was sensitive. Sweet. She told me how I used to be and how I'd met her shortly after courting Connie. They were apparently dating, but not in a relationship. "It's complicated," she said, "but thanks to him, I got to meet you." And I was sort of happy about that, if it had not been for a few things I remembered about Connie since waking up.

Then there was Reiner. To think I'd forget about blond, masculine Reiner Braun. He brought over some polaroid photos of us from last summer, having me examine them individually to have my mind process them. It took me a while to notice, but I began to see a pattern. Connie and Sasha were always making funny faces. Reiner wore sunglasses with the word YOLO slashed across them, his hand on the shoulder of yet another tall, dark haired male. Ymir had her hands on her hips, Historia holding the free one. And then there was me — in the middle or corner somewhere. Most of the time, I wasn't looking at the camera, but when I was, I was caught alone. Smiling at whoever was behind. "Marco took all the photos," said Reiner. And my unspoken question was answered.

Connie helped me out the most with remembering. He was a goofball, and because of that, I was able to recollect some uncomfortable memories. It was for the best, though. He was the one to catch me up on what had been going on with my school life. My memory from my sixteenth birthday and before then was what had come back to me so far, and I couldn't believe it. I'd been such a horrible student in my youth, but Connie reassures that I've bumped up my game after last summer. I was no Albert Einstein, but he was surprised to find out how smart I could be when I didn't actually skip classes. I hit him in the head for that comment.

This is where Marco freaks me out with his saint-like personality. After Mom hopped on her plane and ditched, Marco's always been the first and last person I saw at the end of visiting hours. He always made sure I had enough water. Always made sure my pillows were fluffy to fit my comfort. Always made sure I was never alone, even if he wasn't the one sitting next to me. Always supporting. Always being Marco. When he walked in, it was, "How do you feel today?" and when he left, it was, "Rest well, Jean. I'll be back tomorrow." In between, we talked about idle things like interests, hobbies, whatever; never had we spoken about past or future. Beyond the fact that he, Reiner, and Ymir were all in university already, nothing else seemed to aid me in learning more about him. He told me how I'd befriended Connie last year after summer ended. Baldie was an annoying brat, that much I remember. "You're best friends with him now," he said.

"I am?" I asked credulously.

This is why Connie sprung such odd memories for me.

Not the kid who used to chuck spit wads in back of Miss Farris' head in the second grade. Not the guy who thought it was funny to set a chemical reaction off in sophomore year with the new lab equipment. Not even if our parents were friends and moved to the same areas when work came in the picture and was the only reason I'd known him vaguely since, basically, _birth_. My best friend could've been _anyone_ but him. But Marco said otherwise.

"It's true," he mused. "Connie won you over eventually. Said you were stoked to finally get out of that hell hole of a house and start applying to stay in a dorm."

I thought it over. "That much is true, I guess." Damn, what could I say? The rascal knew me.

"Yup," Marco smiled. "He also wanted to ask about bunkmating."

I rolled my eyes. "He can go _bunk_mate some other dude. What? He couldn't ask me earlier when he was telling me all about my new enrollment in... wait, what was the school called?"

"Sina."

"Yeah, that," I scoffed.

Marco shrugged indifferently. "Might not be so bad. You don't remember it now, but maybe when it comes back to you, you'll want him to be your roommate."

Even if it wasn't coming back to me, with the way Marco said it so casually, I considered it. "Yeah, maybe." It was a silent for a while, so I just had to ask. "What school do you go to?"

He hesitated. It gave me a moment to take a better look at that freckled star grazing the corner of his right eye. "Reiner, Ymir, and I go to the University of Sina, too."

I raised an eyebrow. "Really now?"

"Mhm."

"What are the chances of us all going to the same school?"

He nodded. "Strange coincidence, huh?"

There. He was doing it again, just as he had been the last few days. Whenever I found a connection between him and I, he shrugged it off as if it were mere coincidence. If memory served me right, I hadn't met Marco any time before my junior year. For one, he and I had the same taste in music. Then it became the same kind of foods. Then movies. Tv shows. Preferred times of day to take naps. Snack preferences. He had a distinct perspective on the stars, and when I asked if we ever used to watch them together, he changed the topic to talk about the time I almost mistook Reiner as a cop. Now, we were going to the same university together?

I crossed my arms, not buying it. "Marco," I said with rising suspicion, "who are you, really?"

Almost as if he was expecting the question, he answered right away. "I'm a concerned friend, Jean." Too easy.

"Marco-"

"How's your head?" he asked. Though I knew he was sincerely concerned, I knew he was trying to avoid the subject at hand.

"Peachy," I growled.

"What did Dr. Smith say about the amnesia?"

"This?" I asked, thumb gesturing to the bandages wrapped around my forehead. "He's convinced I'll never regain my memory. Too fucked up."

Marco's face dissolved.

Crap. Wrong move.

"I'm kidding. He said I can't do anything risky for a while, but my memory should be back to normal in a couple weeks."

His eyes remained sullen, but he smiled. "That's good to hear."

"Mm."

It got awkward too fast. I had to keep the conversation casual before it got sentimental.

"That Dr. Smith guy gives me the creeps," I randomly said aloud.

Marco stifled a laugh. "Why?"

Shrug. "He says all this weird junk about living and thinking a certain way, like he's seeing right through me and I can't tell him to piss off."

This somehow intrigued Marco. "I can't imagine how he manages to do that."

"So this is how it went down," I gestured, trying to give him better insight. "He comes into my room the first night after everyone leaves, right? He had to replace the bandages and shit or something. Anyway, he's telling me how these bandages are the first of many, like there some comic premonition shit and he's some psychic freak. Said that I had to live to fight another day because of my 'traumatic stress' or whatever and that I can't overthink it all too much or-"

Marco was beaming ear to ear. At least, until I stopped talking. "What?" He became self-conscious, touching his cheek. "Is there something on my face?"

It took me a second to take it in. "You're smiling," I finally answered, "like, _actually_ smiling. Not how you've been faking it the past few days." He opened his mouth to say something, but I held up my hand to stop him. "Don't even try to say I'm wrong."

"I wasn't going to," he replied softly.

"Oh."

A cross between sadness and concern mixed in his expression. "Sorry," he said. "You don't know how much of a relief it is to see you talk like this. It's like the accident never-"

He didn't finish. My lips pressed together in a tight line.

"A-anyways, it's nice."

"Nice," I repeated. "Nice that I'm cursing up a storm?"

He just smiled. "It's very_ Jean_."

Normally, I would've laughed. But I wasn't normal. Not right now. Something was still bothering me. "Is it, though?" Marco didn't know how to reply, so I pushed on. "Is it 'nice' to know so much about someone without explaining yourself first?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, his eyes leaving mine.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Jean," he said quietly, "I can't tell you." He looked back at me, but his warm, brown eyes weren't going to make me a pushover this time.

"What then? What is it that you're afraid of?" Irritation rode my skin, and I knew why. As much as he wanted it to be an evitable topic, Marco couldn't avoid telling me who he was. There was no place he could hide, at least not near me. Not when he was constantly checking up on me, asking if I was fine every single time, and most certainly not when he looked like he was going to cry the minute he said he had to leave. I deserved an explanation, and he knew that. "Don't beat around the bush, Marco. Spit it out. Who are you to me? Who am I to you?"

"Jean, I don't think-"

"_Don't_, Marco," I interrupted. "Don't avoid the question."

His eyes watered with hurt, his voice low. "It's not that I'm trying to dodge the question."

My brows pinched. "No?"

"No."

"Then explain."

The space between us drew a dismal haze, shaky breaths escaping Marco's lips. Seeing how much he struggled made me regret how harsh I might've been, but he couldn't deny me of this. I was right. Right?

I sighed, the tension from my shoulders dropping. "Look, I don't want to force you to tell me anything, but I deserve to at least know who you're supposed to be to me. What, were we like brothers or something? Best friends?" I would much prefer that arrangement over Connie's. "I'm not trying to be your enemy, Marco, really. I can tell it's hard enough that I had to wake up and not remember you and that you're probably still hurting because of it, but let's make it easier for both of us. Just tell me wh-"

"Lovers."

My heart stopped.

"I'm sorry, I think I heard that wrong. Did you say-"

"Jean," Marco breathed. "I'm your boyfriend."

* * *

><p>That day, Marco wasn't the last person I saw before visiting hours ended. Breaking routine, his last words were, "I'll see you next time." Little did I know that 'next time' meant the day of my release.<p>

* * *

><p>Ninth day. Pissed as hell, nose flared, and I swear, I was <em>this close<em> to punching the stupid wall next to my bed. Ymir wasn't coming in today, so Sasha was the first to ask.

"Jean, what's wrong?"

She was holding my hand. It helped with the nerves, so to say. The only difference today was that I wasn't sure whose nerves were reaching its peak — mine or hers.

The wrinkles surfing the white sheets over my legs were distracting me from losing it. I ogled them as I spoke, throat strained. "He's not here again, right."

A statement, not a question.

"He came by when you were sleeping earlier." A frown formed in Sasha's tone.

I clicked my tongue. "He's fucking avoiding me."

"Jean, that's not true." Narrowed eyes found hers as I swiped my hand away. "Okay, maybe it is," she gave in, "but you got spooked, right? When you heard the news? When you found out who he was?"

She hit the nail.

As if reading my mind, she said, "See? That's why he's keeping his distance. He doesn't want you to be uncomfortable about this."

I rubbed my arm. "Okay, sure," I admitted, "I was surprised at what he said, but I've had four days to think about everything in this shitty bed."

"And?" she asked.

"And what?"

"What do you think about it?"

I raised a brow. "You mean about him being a guy or my boyfriend?"

"Both," she replied.

I was unsure where to begin, but I did anyway. "I don't know," I spoke honestly. "I mean, even before meeting Marco, I've known that… _gender_ is something I never cared about — boy, girl, whatever. I never had much of a preference. If you turned me on, if you were my type, I couldn't care less about what was between your legs."

_Elegant way to put it, Kirstein._

Sasha grimaced at the choice of words, but soon after, smiled about them. "That's good."

I laughed once. "That's _good_?"

She shrugged and propped her elbow on a space beside me, her chin resting on the palm of her hand. "That's so like you to say." She hummed. "In fact, that's _exactly_ what you said last time."

"I said this before?"

My shock amused her. "Yup. After I had met you, I asked what you thought about you and Marco dating. You may not remember it, but you gave me the same answer."

How about that?

Then, realizing where the conversation had headed, I shook my head. "Look, the problem isn't what Marco is. It's _who _he is, and I-"

The next few words were ones I would regret saying twice. I swallowed hard. Voice minimized. "I don't know who he is."

She let me brood for a second before showing off those white pearls of hers. "You've been getting to know him during his visits, haven't you?"

The truth behind her words reigned down on me. Had Marco conversed so freely with me so that I could learn more about him? Or was it really because he didn't want to talk about our relationship?

I was starting to get dizzy. There were so many questions; so many things left unsaid. After Marco told me he was my boyfriend, the entirety of my mindset had shaken. Body froze. Thoughts processed slower as if they'd forgotten how to put two and two together. The epiphany hadn't hit me until he left the room.

Marco Bodt was my boyfriend. My lover. Titles I had never given to anybody _ever_. Official relationships were something I had abandoned, once upon a crappy breakup in the eighth grade. Introverted solitude was something I had valued, and Marco had somehow managed to break through the shield I had perfected, edged, and sharpened over and over again the past few years that treaded by. Convinced love would never find me, I hid from it, sleeping around and drinking bad alcohol and getting into a heap load of trouble.

Who was Marco Bodt to change all of that within the span of a year?

And most of all, how could I not remember any of it?

The person I wanted to see least stepped into the room and all over my thoughts. Sasha turned and stood up immediately. "Dr. Smith," she addressed.

He nodded at her. "Sasha Blouse, was it?"

She nodded back. "Doctor, is something wrong?"

A shake of the head calmed Sasha down instantly. "There's nothing wrong," he informed her. "It's just the opposite. I came to tell Jean that he can be released within the next week."

Both Sasha's and my eyes lit up. "Really?" we asked in unison.

"Yes." He looked at me. "It's not wise to have you cooped up in here. You'll have to come back in at least twice a week for the next month or so to properly have your head examined and re-bandaged, but besides that, you should be fine to live in a comfortable abode of your choice for now."

Sasha and I exchanged smiles before the doctor continued.

"This won't be for another three days, though, Jean."

Impatience tugged at my chest, but I understood. "Yeah," I said simply.

He glanced at some papers on his clipboard. "Shall I call your uncle to pick you up?"

"He might be working," I replied, though it was more of a thought I said aloud.

"As I recall, your parents are in Chicago, and," back down at the clipboard, "the next in your emergency contacts after your uncle is a 'Marco Bodt.'" My stomach did this weird somersault. "Can he come get you?"

Unconsciously, my gaze locked onto Sasha. "Oh!" she exclaimed, too enthusiastic. "Of course! Yes, Doctor, Marco Bodt will most certainly be able to pick up Jean in three days."

He nodded. Seemed to be his signature thing. "Alright, then I suppose you're in good hands, Jean Kirstein. I'll see you later after visiting hours."

When he walked out of the room, a bundle of emotions swelled inside of me: nervousness, unease, glee, annoyance, relief, frustration. God, I wanted to throw up.

Sasha was jumping for joy, on the other hand. She called the others to let them know about the news and had Reiner bring over my old pair of faded jeans, a Jónsi t-shirt, and VANS sneakers during his last visit. To no surprise, Marco hadn't come by, but as Erwin Smith promised, I was released in three days' time. I signed myself out at the reception counter, and when I walked through the front doors of the hospital, all the feelings that made me want to throw up three days before came crawling back up.

The fresh air felt nice in my lungs. Walking more than several feet was like working out an entire week at the gym. The sun bathed the goosebumps skidding my cold, dry skin.

And Marco had a window rolled down his white Lexus ES, waiting right at the entrance. I walked up to the car, making sure I never broke contact with those coffee tinted irises.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

We stared at each other for a minute, our reunion blazing with the friction of infinity and ephemerality. The hospital could've been in flames behind me, and I wouldn't have noticed. All I could see was Marco, and all he could see was me. Pressure built with the quietude hovering between, and he was the first to break it.

"You ready?" he asked, averting his attention to the gear shift.

I didn't say anything. I just got in.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Oh gosh, I had a ton of fun writing their reunion, despite the shortness.


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